Letting the night out

Follow the lines on a map
that hasn’t been made. Tell
yourself you
belong until
you believe
you are one of the birds. Until
your arms become
the patent black of crow
feathers and your voice finally sings
when you pry open
your mouth to let the night
out. You are the map,
you are the bird. You are
anything
but the darkness-slither
you insist on slipping
on as your coat. The man may
not be the weight of cloud
or the tiny knives
of rain in winter. But he is
right about one thing. A bird
can only be
a bird. So what are you?

Author's Note

2021